


Songs of Travel

by sneetchstar



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 09:52:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10001945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: Another set of one-shots, similar to "I Will Breathe a Mountain". Unrelated, random, some AU.





	1. I. The Vagabond

**Author's Note:**

> Give to me the life I love,  
> Let the lave go by me,  
> Give the jolly heaven above  
> And the byway nigh me.  
> Bed in the bush with stars to see,  
> Bread I dip in the river –  
> There's the life for a man like me,  
> There's the life for ever.  
> Let the blow fall soon or late,  
> Let what will be o'er me;  
> Give the face of earth around  
> And the road before me.  
> Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,  
> Nor a friend to know me;  
> All I seek, the heaven above  
> And the road below me.  
> Or let autumn fall on me  
> Where afield I linger,  
> Silencing the bird on tree,  
> Biting the blue finger.  
> White as meal the frosty field –  
> Warm the fireside haven –  
> Not to autumn will I yield,  
> Not to winter even!  
> Let the blow fall soon or late,  
> Let what will be o'er me;  
> Give the face of earth around,  
> And the road before me.  
> Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,  
> Nor a friend to know me;  
> All I ask, the heaven above  
> And the road below me.

They lived. Neither of them knew how, but they lived. Moloch was defeated, the world was saved, and they lived.

They weren't supposed to live. Crane and Abbie learned well before the end of the seven years that the two Witnesses were not meant to survive. That they would give their lives to save mankind.

They each dealt with the knowledge in his or her own way. Abbie had a one night stand with Detective Morales which she instantly regretted. Crane got so drunk that when he woke up the next morning (on the floor), he was _still_ drunk.

Personal feelings had been pushed well to the side. Katrina died, and Crane mourned. Then, he moved on. Jenny died, and Abbie mourned (as did Crane). Then, she moved on.

They had to move on. Greater good.

Eventually, they had no lives apart from their mission. Moloch tried to separate them again and again. He would only succeed for short periods of time, but the two Witnesses would always find their way back to one another.

Naturally, when it was all over, Crane's announcement shocked everyone. Especially Abbie.

“I wish to see the rest of this great country of ours,” he had declared. Two years in, he had acquired all the necessary paperwork to become a “real” citizen, and even acquired a drivers' license. “I intend to purchase an automobile and embark on a 'road-trip' so that I may personally visit such wonders as the Grand Canyon and Niagara Falls, as well as re-visit some of my old remembered places. Boston. Philadelphia. Perhaps, one day, I shall make the journey back to England.”

“Okay,” Abbie had quietly answered, feeling remarkably bereft at his announcement. _Okay, I'll just stay here. Alon_ _e_ _. No sister, no partner, no career with the FBI... just me and my crappy-ass cop job and my empty house._ She pushed her disappointment down, not willing to quash her (former) partner’s excitement. She swallowed hard and looked up at him. “Do you want some help buying that car? I know you can drive, but you know nothing about cars.”

 

xXx

 

Regular police work suddenly became overwhelmingly routine and very boring for Abbie. After battling one of the biggest, baddest demons out there, even “exciting” police work like chasing down an armed robber felt... boring. Unfulfilling.

Captain Irving lasted two days after Moloch's defeat, then decided to retire, going so far as to directly quote _Lethal Weapon_ as he announced to the department that he's “getting to old for this shit.”

Abbie thought it was more likely he was as bored as she was. He wasn't _that_ much older than she.

Her personal life wasn’t faring much better. She’s alone and mostly miserable, but she finds she doesn’t _want_ to go out and meet people. She’s forgotten how to be sociable, and doesn’t care.

Two weeks after Crane left, Abbie is hunched over her desk, scowling over some paperwork. _Stupid vandals. I never understood the impulse to—_

A pair of large, strong, warm hands land on her shoulders and begin to gently massage the knots she had been busy building as she worked.

Abbie gasps and drops her pen. It rolls across her desk and clatters to the floor.

“Your posture continues to be deplorable, Lieutenant,” a soft, heartbreakingly familiar voice speaks from behind her. Her stomach drops.

She can't turn and look at him. She can't let him see the tears in her eyes that give away how much she's missed him.

His cranky demeanor. His superior attitude. His smug little smirk. His condescending manner.

His remarkable intelligence. His unflagging bravery. His bright blue eyes, sparkling with naïve delight. His voice, with its velvety timbre and clipped syllables. The way he pronounces “Lieutenant” like no one else.

The way he listens when she speaks as though every word is fascinating.

The way he can finish her sentences and she, his.

The way he looks at her like she is a precious jewel.

“Abbie,” he speaks again, his voice a caress. His fingers still work on her shoulders, finding all the knots, knowing exactly where they are.

“What are you doing here?” Abbie finally asks, her voice a whisper. She reaches up and places her small hand over his. He turns his hand and takes hers, lifting it slightly as he bends down to kiss it.

Abbie can feel his warmth behind her. She can smell his scent. His lips are soft and send a slight shiver through her.

“I missed you.” His declaration is simple and heartfelt. She feels his cheek rest on the top of her head; hears him sigh. “I was lost. Even with the amazing GPS system you gifted me, I was still lost because you were not by my side.”

Abbie's breath hitches in a small sob. People are openly staring now, but she doesn't care.

“Please, Abbie... look at me,” he quietly says. “I have missed your face. Your eyes.”

Abbie turns and looks up at him, her eyes glassy. Hesitantly, he reaches out and gently wipes her tears from her cheeks. “You haven't been sleeping,” she whispers, noting his haggard appearance. “Or eating.”

“When I sleep, I dream of you, and the longing it brings forth is far too painful,” he says, pulling her to her feet. “And, you know my opinions about food in this time.”

She presses her lips together, torn between crying and laughing. “You mean you still need me to tell you what to eat,” she says, choosing to focus on his second statement.

He nods, unashamed. “Come with me, Abbie.”

“Crane, I can't... my job...”

“Miss Mills, you _are_ aware of my family’s bank account. We discovered it together,” he reminds her, one eyebrow hitching upwards.

Crane has plenty of money. Two hundred-plus years is a long time to collect interest.

He takes her hands. “Be with me. Please.”

“Are you saying...?” she asks, afraid of the answer. Crane had been gone for a week before she realized exactly _why_ she missed him so much.

Her hands are clasped in his, and he runs his thumbs over her knuckles. “I... I am little more than a vagabond without you beside me. I wander, aimless and lost, yearning for a place where I feel I belong. I realize now that _you_ are my home, Abbie. Wherever you are is where I belong,” he confirms, slowly pulling her into the circle of his embrace.

“I missed you so damn much,” Abbie finally sighs, leaning into him, the rough wool of his coat familiar and wonderful against her cheek.

“I love you, Grace Abigail Mills,” he whispers into her hair. “I did not realize it until I had left your company.”

She looks up at him. “I love you, too, Ichabod Crane,” she answers. “Figured it out a week ago.”

As his lips descend and gently close over hers, Abbie feels her life click back into place. _This is where I belong_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to do another set of one-shots based on a song cycle I did at work (I like these. They’re fun for me). This time it is “Songs of Travel” by Robert Louis Stevenson, a set of 44 poems written in 1887. Composer Ralph Vaughan-Williams chose nine of these poems and set them to music. The order I am presenting them here is the order they appear in the song cycle, which is not chronological. Again, the fics are what I was inspired to write after reading the poems, not a direct interpretation of the poems.


	2. Let Beauty Awake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IX Let Beauty Awake
> 
> Let Beauty awake in the morn from beautiful dreams,   
> Beauty awake from rest!   
> Let Beauty awake   
> For Beauty's sake   
> In the hour when the birds awake in the brake   
> And the stars are bright in the west!   
> Let Beauty awake in the eve from the slumber of day,   
> Awake in the crimson eve!   
> In the day's dusk end   
> When the shades ascend,   
> Let her wake to the kiss of a tender friend   
> To render again and receive!

Crane slowly blinks his eyes open. They flutter closed immediately, not willing to accept that he is awake. He is still tired and a little disoriented, and for a moment, experiences the same feeling he had on his first morning in this century. The hazy, slightly disconnected, I-don’t-know-where-I-am feeling.

Except, this time, he feels… _good._ Tired, yes, but a good tired. And warm. Content.

Satisfied.

He adjusts, cuddling deeper into the bed, pulling the pillow clutched in his arms closer to his chest.

The pillow feels different this morning. It also softly sighs.

_Miss Mills. Abbie._

A slow smile creeps across Crane’s face as he remembers.

He remembers her lush lips moving against his. Her sweet, sly tongue tangling with his. Her soft skin under his hands. Her breasts, perfect, malleable, and responsive to his every touch. How her brown skin shone gold in the candlelight, like that of an Ancient Egyptian goddess. Her beautiful, dark brown eyes gazing into his, mining the depths of his soul until his every emotion was laid bare before her.

Crane never imagined that firm, toned muscles would feel so _good_ under his hands. Women were supposed to be soft, pliant. Yielding. But, the sensation of Abbie’s strong body, conditioned by police work, was a thing of wonder. Strong and alluring at once.

Her flat stomach with its barely-defined muscles jumping as his lips traced them. Her strong back and shoulders, flexing beneath his splayed palms as she rode him like she had spent years in the saddle. The long, firm muscles of her thighs, clad in skin that feels like the softest silk, as they wrapped themselves around his waist, holding him tightly, almost threatening to snap him in half as she reached the pinnacle of ecstasy.

So different. So amazingly wonderful. So unbelievable that Crane is afraid to open his eyes lest the previous night was just a fevered dream and his beautiful treasure is not truly here in his arms.

So _completely_ different.

His heart broke when Katrina died, willingly returning to Purgatory to await her Judgment.

Miss Mills mended his heart, rendering it whole again. No. Rendering it better than it was. Stronger, for being joined with hers.

He angles his head downward, tucking his nose into her neck to inhale her scent. He presses his lips to her shoulder to taste her skin. His arm tightens around her waist, pulling her closer, to feel her body pressed against his.

His manhood twitches against her firm, rounded backside, and she sighs again in her sleep.

_Awake, my beauty. Awake so that I might know you again. Awake so that I might gaze into your dark eyes until I lose all that I am_ _in_ _you. Awake, my love._

He wants to let her sleep, because she deserves all the rest she can get.

He wants to wake her up, because he is selfish and each moment she slumbers is a moment without her words, her laughter, her smile.

He lets his beloved sleep. Eventually, he drifts back to slumber as well.

 

xXx

 

Crane is woken some time later by a pair of now-familiar lips feathering across his closed eyelids. First the right, then the left. He stirs slightly, and she kisses his mouth, her small fingertips stroking his beard.

He is returning her kiss in seconds, his arm tightening around her as the hand pinned beneath her worms its way free until it lands on her backside.

“Good morning, my love,” he purrs, opening his eyes at last. “You are truly a wondrous sight to behold when I awake.”

“It’s nearly afternoon,” Abbie answers, smiling and kissing him again. “And, thank you. I liked waking up wrapped in your arms.”

“I pray it shall always be so,” he says, turning onto his back and pulling her with so she is lying atop his chest.

“That I always wake up in your arms or that I always _like_ waking up in your arms?” she asks, looking down at him with a sweet, teasing smile on her face.

Reaching up to caress her cheeks with his thumbs, Crane softly requests, “Can we not have both?” His voice rumbles as he continues. “I should very much like both.”

Abbie nods, then pushes herself up and kisses him, framing his face with her small hands. “I love you, Ichabod,” she whispers, moving to press her cheek against his.

 _I will never grow tired of hearing her speak those words._ “I love you, Abbie,” he answers, murmuring in her ear, which he turns to kiss.

He slides his hands down her back to her buttocks, and she lifts her head again, closing her lips over his.

In moments, they are lost again.


	3. The Roadside Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> XI The Roadside Fire
> 
> I will make you brooches and toys for your delight   
> Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night.   
> I will make a palace fit for you and me   
> Of green days in forests and blue days at sea.   
> I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room,   
> Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom,   
> And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white   
> In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night.   
> And this shall be for music when no one else is near,   
> The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear!   
> That only I remember, that only you admire,   
> Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire.

“Sometimes, I miss it.” Crane pauses when he looks up and sees his partner's skeptical expression. “Often,” he amends, dropping the brooch into the box with a clatter.

It was a cameo, a vaguely-Grecian face in profile. Carved ivory set atop an ebony background. It was Katrina's. One of the few things that was left of her.

Crane and Abbie were preparing a small box of what small number of effects they could scrape up of Katrina's, intending to bury it under her headstone.

The cameo brooch. The emerald necklace. A love letter, a lock of hair, and a pressed violet, all contained in a parchment envelope Crane had squirreled away in his coat.

This is all that remains of Katrina Crane. She died months ago. Crane has made his peace with her passing, and so it is time to finally put her memory to rest as well.

“Life was simpler. At least, it seemed so,” Crane continues, clarifying his current nostalgic status. He looks up at Abbie, knowing she would argue that things are simpler _now_ , with microwave ovens and the Internet. “Now, everything is so fast and... bewildering,” he adds, flexing his fingers as they rest atop the edges of the open box.

“You're not all that bewildered anymore,” Abbie points out, reaching over and giving his beloved smartphone a deliberate tap. “I've told you many times how impressed I am by how well you've adapted.”

“I hide a lot of my confusion behind arrogance and bravado,” he admits with a heavy sigh, leaning back in his chair. “I should like a small prayer book or Bible to put in the box,” he absently adds, looking around the archives.

Abbie smiles. “It's not as well-hidden as you think, Crane,” she says, rising. “You forget I can see right through your arrogance and bravado.” She walks over to a bookcase, glancing over her shoulder to see her partner smiling to himself, knowing her words are true. Abbie turns and scans the case until she sees that for which she is looking several shelves up. She reaches up and can _almost_ grab the book. She attempts to stretch further just as Crane materializes behind her and reaches the book effortlessly.

“ _The Book of Common Prayer_ ,” Crane reads, his long fingers tracing the faded gold leaf of the title. “This shall do nicely, thank you, Miss Mills.” He looks down at her, standing trapped between his body and the bookshelf. He hadn't backed up much after retrieving the book, personal space never being an issue with the lieutenant.

Abbie smiles up at him, and in that moment, he remembers why it has been so easy for him to adapt to this era.

“I remembered seeing it the other day. I had a step stool then,” she says, reaching up and lightly pushing him back to the table.

“Well, yes, of course. I daresay you should carry one with you always,” he answers, dodging the light punch he knows is coming even though she is behind him.

“Back to short jokes, Old Man?” she asks, dropping into her chair.

It has been Standard Operating Procedure for two years now: short jokes and old jokes, volleyed back and forth like a tennis ball.

“As you have said, Miss Mills, 'The classics are always in style',” Crane quotes, removing the items from the box to place the book at the bottom. The yellowed envelope goes next, then the jewelry.

“When did I say that?” Abbie asks.

“Two weeks ago... Thursday. Though, I believe you were making light of my continued insistence on wearing my 'old clothes' instead of embracing modern finery,” he informs.

“Right,” she answers, watching him stare into the box. It's not a fancy box. It's polished wood, about the size of a shoebox. Abbie had a brass plate engraved with Katrina's name and set into the top.

He picks up the necklace, regards it with a somewhat-detached expression, and drops it back into the box.

“What do you miss most?” Abbie softly asks. She's not sure if she wants to know the answer, but Talking Crane is preferable to Silent Crane.

He ponders her question for a few moments. “There isn't one thing I miss above all,” he finally says.

“So, just everything?”

He shakes his head. “It's more a feeling of... missing what my life could have been. Had I lived. Yes, yes, I know I did not actually die,” he hastily adds, holding up his hand when he sees Abbie open her mouth, “but the Ichabod Crane who lived in the eighteenth century _did_ , for all intents and purposes, die in 1781.”

Abbie reaches across the table, and he places his hand in hers. It is a comforting gesture, one that comes as easily as breathing to them. He turns their joined hands so that hers is cradled in his, a more natural arrangement given the size difference.

“We had such plans,” he says, looking at his partner's small hand resting in his, always marveling at how physically tiny she is in contrast to her bravery and personality. “A home. A garden.”

Abbie closes her eyes, knowing what is coming next.

“A family,” he whispers, the pain of everything to do with his son still sharp, even after they returned him to his grave.

Abbie squeezes his hand, understanding completely. She had plans of her own. None of them involved demons or the apocalypse or having a 200-some-year-old Revolutionary War soldier as her BFF. She says nothing, however. She doesn't need to.

This is not about her.

Anyway, Crane knows.

“I had dreams – during the brief moments of sleep afforded to me while I was in battle – of a lovely home with shutters and a fence... rose bushes... perhaps some fine hunting dogs.” He sighs heavily, his thumb skating across her knuckles. “Children playing on the grass. I would have liked several. As many as she could bear me,” he wistfully smiles and looks up at her.

Abbie smiles back at him, the image of Crane the Family Man a very easy one to conjure. She knows his brusque, studious, sometimes curmudgeonly exterior is just that – an exterior. She has no problem at all imagining him interacting, even playing, with children.

She doesn't tell him he still has time for happiness, for children, for a life. She doesn't say the words because she doesn't know if they are true. Even if Crane and she stop the world from ending, _they_ may not survive it.

“It's getting late,” Abbie says instead, glancing outside. “Do you want to...?” Her eyes drop to the wooden box between them.

“We shall do it tomorrow,” Crane answers her partial question, closing the box with his free hand. “If we go skulking around the cemetery at dusk, it may look suspicious,” he adds, cocking his eyebrow.

“Right, because _nothing_ we ever do is suspicious at all,” she responds, preparing to stand. She starts to withdraw her hand, but he holds it a moment longer.

“Abbie,” he says, employing her rarely-used first name. She freezes and looks at him, waiting. “Thank you. I do not say it enough. If it weren't for your guidance, your presence in my life... I would be lost, indeed. You marvel at how I've adapted, but you fail to see that my acclimatization is largely due to your gentle and patient... no.” He smiles. “ _Rarely_ gentle and often _impatient_ , but always well-meaning tutelage.” He lifts her hand and kisses her knuckles, his lips surprisingly soft within the prickle of his beard.

“You're welcome, Ichabod,” she quietly answers. “Come on. We'll get some takeout and I'll drive you home,” she says. He releases her hand and she rises.

“Will you stay and dine with me?” he asks, lifting the leather jacket from the back of her chair and holding it out.

“Only if you set a fire in the fireplace,” she answers, slipping her arms into the garment.

“Of course,” he nods, opening the door. “After you, Miss Mills.”

She walks through the door and out into the chilly evening. Crane's hand softly lands on the small of her back, gently escorting her to the car, where he opens the door for her after she unlocks it.

“Shall we order pizza? I believe I would like pizza, if you are agreeable,” he says, sliding into his seat. He pulls his phone out and gently waves it back and forth.

“You've got Mario's on speed dial there, don't you?” she answers, smirking. It's not really a question. He loves pizza, and has quickly become a connoisseur. “Yes, order us a pizza. We can pick it up on the way to the cabin.”

As he waits for Mario's to answer, he mutters, “I will admit there are _some_ things in this era that are far superior.”

Abbie smiles, feeling him observe her out of the corner of his eye. She watches the road stretching before them, the glow of sunset burning like fire in the west.


	4. Youth and Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> III Youth and Love
> 
> To the heart of youth the world is a highwayside.   
> Passing for ever, he fares; and on either hand,   
> Deep in the gardens golden pavilions hide,   
> Nestle in orchard bloom, and far on the level land   
> Call him with lighted lamp in the eventide.   
> Thick as the stars at night when the moon is down,   
> Pleasures assail him. He to his nobler fate   
> Fares; and but waves a hand as he passes on,   
> Cries but a wayside word to her at the garden gate,   
> Sings but a boyish stave and his face is gone.

“Ab...” Crane moans in his sleep, tossing. Beside him, Katrina looks over, a slight frown crossing her features.

 _He's dreaming. Again. I feared this would happen._ She reaches over and brushes the sweat-dampened hair from his brow. The room is hot, the air sticky with humidity. There is a breeze blowing in through the open windows, but it provides little relief.

“No.” The word is clear and distinct. He hasn't yet shouted it, but he's close.

Katrina waits, knowing it will come.

“No!” he screams, sitting bolt upright in bed, eyes wide and, momentarily, unseeing.

“Ichabod,” Katrina soothes, running her hand down his arm. “You must have been having a nightmare.”

“Oh... yes... forgive me, my love, I...” he blinks and looks at her. “This is the third one this week,” he says. He rises from the bed and walks to a table where there is a pitcher and two glasses. He pours himself a glass of water, downs it, and returns to bed. “They are not all nightmares, however,” he explains, his head clearer now.

“No?” Katrina asks, interested.

“But... they all involve the same person,” he says, his eyes darting away from his wife's face. Katrina holds her breath, knowing what he is going to say. “A woman.”

 _I know._ “A... woman?” she carefully asks.

“Do not fret, my love, it's nothing... improper. At least... I don't _think_... oh, dear. Some of the details are blurry.”

“It's all right, Ichabod. If you don't wish to discuss it, I understand,” she says. _I am not certain I wish to hear about it._

“No, no, I should like to tell you... I think it will help me collect my wits.”

“Ichabod, you need your rest. General Washington is expecting you early tomorrow,” Katrina advises.

“Yes, my dear, I remember,” he nods, taking her hand. “But, if my brain is addled with this puzzle, I will be of no help to the General whatsoever.”

Katrina sighs softly, hoping she doesn't sound as wary as she feels. “Then, by all means, my love. Please, go on. This woman. What is she like? What does she do?”

“It's very strange. We... we aren't... lovers,” he says, attempting to erase the tension he sees on his wife’s brow. “I feel... fondness for her, so I presume we are friends. But, close friends. In my dreams, I... I trust her implicitly. We are... allies, working for a common cause.” The words come out haltingly as he attempts to explain his relationship with the mysterious woman in his dream.

“What... what does she look like?” Katrina asks. She has actually been curious about this since she came to realize that the second witness would be a woman.

Crane closes his eyes. “She dresses strangely. She wears trousers, like a man, but... they appear to be different from the sort I wear. She is small, very petite, but… strong, I think. She is also a free woman of color.”

“Oh,” Katrina says, blinking in surprise.

“She... she looks rather like Mrs. Dixon. Yes. There is a passing resemblance to Grace Dixon, most definitely,” he says, decisively nodding. “She is very smart. Clever.”

“Does she have a name?” _I have heard him speak her name. Abbie. But, I wonder if he is aware?_

“I’m certain she does, but… I seem to refer to her as “Lieutenant” in my dreams when I do address her. Curious. A female lieutenant.” He pauses a moment. “Her name is something beginning with the letter ‘A’, I believe,” he says, almost absentmindedly.

“Pretty?” Katrina softly asks.

Crane smiles at his wife. “My love, are you jealous of this nonexistent woman?”

 _Oh, but she does exist. She will._ “Merely curious,” she answers, feeling jealous indeed, yet smiling to hide it while she listens to her husband praise a woman he will not meet for an undetermined amount of time. _Could be centuries._

“She is quite pretty, yes, but, of course, I only have eyes for you, Wife,” Crane answers. He leans over and kisses her cheek.

“What does she do? I mean, what do you do... together?”

He thinks. “There is a fair amount of running. It's often dark. It's often... unpleasant. Not always, but frequently. I believe we are chasing someone. Or something.” He pauses. “Sometimes, _we_ are the quarry. That was the case this evening. We were being pursued.”

“Pursued by whom?” she asks, her eyebrows rising.

“I am not certain. I am not even certain if our pursuer is a 'who'. It may be a 'what'. I am always jolted from my slumber just as events escalate,” Crane says. He yawns and stretches, then settles deeper into their bed.

“How long have you been having these dreams?” Katrina asks, settling in as well. It is too warm to truly be comfortable, but they manage the best they can.

Crane kicks a leg out from beneath the sheet, his foot nearly hanging off the end of the bed. “Just within this last year...” his voice trails off, and he suddenly sits up, his eyes widening. “No. I dreamt of her when I was but a boy. They weren't nightmares at all then, but I remember... flashes.” He closes his eyes, willing the images to present themselves. “Her eyes. Her voice. I remember being puzzled by her dark skin, wondering why I would be dreaming of this beautiful, dark-skinned woman.”

 _So, now she is beautiful?_ Katrina swallows and says, “I suppose that would have been very perplexing. How old were you?”

“Ten. It went on for a few years. I never told anyone.”

Katrina is quiet for a moment, trying to decide how to get her husband to calm himself and return to sleep, hoping the dreams will not return tonight. “Ichabod, I know this is puzzling,” she soothes, reaching for his hand and gently pulling him back down. “But, you cannot let it trouble you. Dreams are mysterious things. Shadows. No one knows of their origins. I do not think you should dwell on them.” She feels the familiar sting she always experiences when forced to keep something from – lie to – him, but she must. It is a part of the path she must follow, just as he must follow his. _If he were to learn of his true calling at the wrong time, the consequences would be disastrous._

He sighs, his eyes closed. “I shall try to not let these dreams worry me,” he says. “But, they are so... vivid.”

“That often happens,” Katrina says. “Once, I dreamt I was a sparrow. When I awoke, I could still feel the feathers on my skin. I would have sworn I could fly.” She quietly chuckles, reaching over to softly stroke Crane's beard with her fingertips.

He leans over and kisses her. “Thank you for listening, my love. And, thank you, as always, for your sage words of counsel.”

xXx

 

The next day, Captain Ichabod Crane falls on the battlefield after removing the head of a Hessian soldier. His wife, Katrina Crane, places him in an enchanted sleep, saving his life until he can wake at the proper time.

In doing so, she unintentionally wipes the dreams from his memory.


	5. In Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IV In Dreams
> 
> In dreams, unhappy, I behold you stand   
> As heretofore:   
> The unremembered tokens in your hand   
> Avail no more.   
> No more the morning glow, no more the grace,   
> Enshrines, endears.   
> Cold beats the light of time upon your face   
> And shows your tears.   
> He came and went. Perchance you wept a while   
> And then forgot.   
> Ah me! but he that left you with a smile   
> Forgets you not.

The ship sank. The men scattered, heading for lifeboats and abandoning ship.

Captain Ichabod Crane stayed.

_The captain must go down with his ship._

So, when _The Katrina_ sank, Captain Crane stood on the deck until he could no longer do so. When the broken vessel sank to the bottom of the ocean, Crane found himself clinging to a section of the hull, wet, bedraggled, and exhausted.

He summoned the last of his strength, crawled atop his makeshift raft, and fell unconscious.

Soft hands and soft singing roused Crane from his exhausted slumber. He could feel the hot sun beating down on his prone body. He could feel the itch of the salt stuck to his skin where the water had dried and left its residue. He could feel the rough wood beneath him, unforgiving against his joints, harsh against his cheek.

He could also feel delicate fingers brushing his hair from his face. They were cool and soft. Tender, like a lover’s caress.

Above the quiet lap of the waves he could hear gentle singing. More accurately, humming. A tune of which he had never heard, but Crane found he was instantly taken with its ethereal melody.

_How can this be? Surely, the ship sank. My exhaustion and this wooden surface below me confirm I did not dream that storm._

Curious, Crane pries open a crusted eye. It takes all his might to do this much.

He can make out a shape in front of him, small, dark, the top half hovering above the surface of the water. _A person, hanging on to the side of my raft._ He is silhouetted, the sun behind him, obscuring his features.

Crane parts his parched lips to speak, to ask this person his identity and why he is not climbing atop the raft to get dry. All that comes out is a dry rasp.

The person puts his finger to Crane’s lips, and utters a soft, “Shh…”

His eyes widen, then narrow, blinking, attempting to banish the blurriness. _A woman. What is a woman doing out here?_

She leans forward slightly and caresses his face once again, her fingers lingering in his beard, as though fascinated. He can see her skin, brown like delicious chocolate from the New World, shimmering with water droplets. His eyes follow her arm to her face and, just as they begin to focus, she darts away in a flash of raven-black hair.

“W—” he manages, unable to yet lift his head. He sees the flash of a large tail covered in shining copper scales flicking above the surface for a few seconds before disappearing.

As Crane once again succumbs to unconsciousness, he tells himself he must have been hallucinating.

One word floats into his brain as the blackness descends.

_Mermaid._

 

xXx

 

Something cool is being held to his lips. It feels firm and vaguely plant-like, but there is sweet, fresh water coming from it and Crane latches on like a babe to his mother’s breast.

Too soon, it is gently pulled from his lips, and he chases it, wanting more.

He opens his eyes to see his brown mermaid has returned. She holds a cluster of seaweed with bulbous stems swollen with what must be fresh water. She shows him the one she has just pulled from his mouth and he sees he has sucked it dry.

Groaning, he struggles to sit up. He wants more. Greedily, he reaches for another piece, but as his eyes land on her face, his hand stills.

Beneath perfectly arched brows, large, beautiful, _golden_ eyes somberly regard him. Her forehead is broad and smooth, and high cheekbones flank a small, straight nose. Her lips are full and pink, the kind of lips meant to be kissed. Black hair halos her face and cascades over her shoulders, veiling her breasts.

She is the most beautiful creature Captain Ichabod Crane has ever seen.

She looks down and places another branch of seaweed into his outstretched hand.

_Slowly._

The word forms in his head, but _he_ did not think it. His eyes flash to hers. He tries to speak again. “W-was that…?” His voice comes in a soft rasp.

_Yes. Drink slowly or you’ll become ill._

“Thank you,” he whispers, lifting the seaweed to his lips. He bites into the fat stem and drinks.

Slowly.

 

xXx

 

She brings him fish. He eats, though it is uncooked and the texture makes him squeamish at first.

She finds items from the wreckage she thinks will help him. Part of the sail to shield him from the sun. A compass, too waterlogged to be of any use, but he appreciates the thought and holds it to his heart. A pair of boots, which she frowns over when she sees they are much too small for his large feet.

And always, always the bulbous seaweed filled with the fresh water that saves his life.

“Thank you for thinking of me,” he says. Each time she brings him something, he repeats it.

He asks for her name. It is long and complicated, beyond his ability to pronounce, but the first part sounds similar to “Abbie”. He inquires if he may simply address her thusly.

She nods, smiling.

“My name is Ichabod,” he tells her. She touches his cheek, stroking his beard, and gazes into his blue eyes for a moment. Then, she dives away, her copper tail glinting behind her.

 

xXx

 

There is another storm. She protects him. Makes certain his raft doesn’t capsize and throw him back into the sea.

She’s remarkably strong for one so slender and graceful. Crane clings to his raft, to her, no longer certain he _want_ _s_ to find dry land if it means never seeing her again.

When it is over, they are both exhausted. She reaches out, cups his face in her hands, and softly kisses him once before slipping quietly and sedately beneath the surface.

_Rest._

In the morning, he is found by a Royal Navy vessel and rescued.

Crane is grateful, but sad. He keeps quiet about his Abbie, not completely certain whether or not he imagined her all along. Now clean and wearing fresh, slightly ill-fitting clothes, he watches the waters, searching for her. Her lithe, dark shape. Her copper tail, like polished coins woven together. Her ebony hair, so soft, even when wet.

Once or twice he thinks he sees her. But, it is always merely a glimpse. It could just as easily have been a seal or dolphin.

He worries that he’s gone mad.

 

xXx

 

Crane stands, alone, on the boulders by the sea behind his home. He climbs over the rocks, venturing out as far as he dares to stand and gaze out over the glistening water. He has been home for nearly two weeks, and for nearly two weeks, he has come out every night. When he can spare the time, he comes out during the day.

He watches for her. Longs for her touch. His whole being cries out for something, some clue to tell him he didn’t imagine her. His mermaid, his savior, his Abbie.

He dreams of her. He dreams that she is a human. He dreams that he is a merman.

Her voice is in his head, the few words she had shared with him indelibly printed there. At unexpected times, he finds himself humming her strange melody.

His footman thinks he’s lost his mind. His maid frets over him.

The broken compass she salvaged for him is his constant companion, always residing in his pocket. He withdraws it and clutches it in his hand, the shape and weight comforting. The instrument will never work again. It is broken, like his heart.

He looks down at the compass, then out over the ocean, his eyes scanning one last time as the sun slowly sinks beneath the horizon.

In the dying light, there is a distant splash and a glint of copper.

Crane audibly gasps, nearly dropping his compass.

 

xXx

 

He wakes the following morning, lying on the rocks, to find a clump of bulbous-stemmed seaweed resting beside him, still glistening with seawater. He feels a strange tingling on his cheek and reaches up to discover his beard is wet with seawater on one side.

“Abbie...”


	6. The Infinite Shining Heavens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VI The Infinite Shining Heavens
> 
> The infinite shining heavens   
> Rose and I saw in the night   
> Uncountable angel stars   
> Showering sorrow and light.   
> I saw them distant as heaven,   
> Dumb and shining and dead,   
> And the idle stars of the night   
> Were dearer to me than bread.   
> Night after night in my sorrow   
> The stars stood over the sea,   
> Till lo! I looked in the dusk   
> And a star had come down to me.

“What's that one?” Abbie asks, pointing to the sky. Crane and she are sitting side by side on a bench by the lake beside the cabin, unwinding after a day of chasing this week's Boogeyman.

Crane leans over, aligning his head with hers and following her finger. “Ursa Major, the Great Bear,” he declares. “The, um, rump and tail comprise what you likely know as 'The Big Dipper'.”

“Yeah, that's the one,” she answers, nodding. She wasn't surprised he knew astronomy. He knows nearly everything, especially now that he's mastered the internet and has instant knowledge at his fingertips.

“The legend states that Hera discovered Zeus was having an affair with Callisto and turned her into a bear. Zeus put Callisto into the sky along with their son, Arcas, who became the Little Bear,” he explains.

“Ursa Minor?” Abbie guesses. He nods. “Where is that one?”

“Ah... just there,” he leans down near her again and points. “Polaris, the north star, is the end of his tail.”

“Oh, okay,” she nods, then turns to look at him and slightly startles. He is very close.

“Forgive me,” he mutters, sitting up straight again, her sweet scent clinging to his nostrils.

“What, for being right next to me?” Abbie says, smiling. “I think we're well past using 'company manners', _Ichabod_ ,” she adds, using his first name to drive the point home. She playfully nudges him with her elbow.

He smiles and looks down at the water, wishing there was more of a moon to provide some light. The waxing crescent above them does not illuminate much. It makes it easier to see the stars, but more difficult to discern his partner's always-fascinating facial expressions.

“I read somewhere that a star is so far away, by the time its light reaches us, the star itself may be already dead,” Abbie says.

“Interesting,” Crane answers. “Though, a tad disheartening, particularly if one wishes on a falling star. Logic would suggest the star fell ages ago.” A slight frown crosses his face.

“What do you know about wishing on falling stars?” Abbie asks, grinning impishly at him. “I thought that kind of thing was reserved for, oh, 12-year-old girls...” She chuckles at his scowl, which bears a hint of unintentional amusement. She leans into him, bumping his upper arm with her shoulder.

“You certainly have the hair for it,” she adds, reaching up to flip his ponytail with her finger. “Sorry, I couldn't resist.”

“Have you finished, Miss Mills?” he asks. He raises an eyebrow at her, but the twinkle of good humor remains in his eyes.

“For now,” Abbie says, chuckling. “I don't get many opportunities to tease you, Crane. It's fun. And, it's good for you. Builds character.”

He makes a derisive huffing sound. “Character is a quality of which I have an abundance,” he states.

“This is true,” Abbie allows, quirking her head to the side.

“This is not to say that you do not possess a plentiful amount of _character_ yourself, Lieutenant,” he clarifies, smiling down at her.

“Ah, well, that just comes from the crazy-ass life I've lived,” Abbie answers. “So,” she continues, ready to move on, “falling stars. Wishes. What does your big ol' brain have to say about them?” She looks up at him, interested.

Crane looks down into her large brown eyes for a moment before answering, turning to gaze up at the sky again before speaking. “According to my reading, Ptolemy wrote that when bored, the gods would spy on the Earth, causing a rift in the heavens. Stars would escape, becoming visible as shooting, or falling, stars. It is said that these same gods would grant wishes during this time, since they were, as one might say, 'in the neighborhood'.”

“Sounds about right, considering what I know about Greek gods and their attitudes towards humans,” Abbie says, chuckling. She swings her legs, brushing the ends of the grass with her boots.

“There are other legends, of course, likely one for every ancient culture,” Crane says. “It is a nice thought, I think. A simple idea to give one hope.”

“Like Santa Claus,” Abbie says, nodding.

“Indeed,” he agrees. “Have you never wished upon a star, Miss Mills?”

“Sure, I have,” she admits. “Wished for my mom to not be crazy. For my dad to come back. For what happened in the woods to just disappear.” She looks up at him and dryly adds, “You know. The standard things for which every teenage girl wishes.”

Crane somberly nods, a sympathetic smile on his face, then reaches over and takes her hand in his, gently holding it.

“I used to think the stars were the souls of loved ones who have passed,” he quietly says, turning his face skyward once again. “I would gaze up at them and wonder which one was my grandmother, my grandfather... which one was my beloved dog, Snowball.”

 _Snowball?_ Abbie smiles at the name, but doesn't comment. She watches him looking up and wonders if he is trying to decide which star is Katrina. _Though she didn't really turn out to be a “loved one” in the end,_ she grimly thinks.

 _Change the subject._ “Is that something?” Abbie points with her free hand. “Those four stars make a square.”

He leans over and looks again, not releasing her hand. “I believe that is Hercules.”

“Hercules is a constellation? I thought he was a dude.”

Crane chuckles. “He is both, apparently.” He points at the sky. “His arms and legs extend from the corners of the square.” He snorts a sudden laugh.

“What?”

“The constellation Hercules has no head,” he remarks. “It struck me this very moment.”

Abbie laughs. “Maybe we should rename it then. Though 'Abraham' doesn't sound as cool.”

“Indeed not. And, he deserves no such honor, though his ego would have vehemently disagreed with my assessment,” Crane says.

“Is there a 'Horseman' constellation?” Abbie asks, looking up at him.

Crane thinks. “Well, there is Centaurus, which is a 'horse-man' in a very literal sense.”

“Yes, I know what a centaur is,” she comments, chuckling again.

“I assumed you did, even if only from those _Harry Potter_ books,” he nods, taking his turn to tease her.

She nudges him in the shoulder again. “Yes, everything I learned about mythical creatures is from _Harry Potter_ ,” she says sarcastically, laughing. “I didn't go to _school_ or anything.”

“Merely helping you build character,” he returns, looking sideways at her, his lips curled in a slight smile.

“Shut up,” she laughs. “So, where is that one? Centaurus.”

“It cannot be seen in the north,” he says.

“Of course you would have studied constellations you can't even _see,_ ” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Anything worth doing is worth doing well, Lieutenant,” he smugly answers, unconsciously squeezing her hand.

Abbie merely shakes her head, resigned. “I don't see Orion. The only constellation I can actually find, and...”

“The Hunter is better seen in the winter months,” Crane points out.

“Oh,” Abbie answers dumbly. She sighs heavily and leans against him.

“We should retire before it is too late. You still need to drive home,” he softly says, the slight weight of his partner on his shoulder warm and comforting. Reassuring.

Pleasant.

“Ugh, don't want to think about that,” she says. “Remind me why we moved you into this place way out in the sticks.”

“It was free, available, and provided me with a rustic setting in which I could be comfortable,” he helpfully provides. His thumb absently rubs the skin on the back of Abbie's hand.

“It's also a 20-minute drive,” Abbie complains. She sighs. “Gonna sleep on your couch, I think.”

“Of course. You are always welcome in my home,” Crane answers with a nod. Abbie has slept on his couch several times over the years.

“Yeah, I know. Thanks,” she replies, smiling up at him. Without thinking, she scoots a little closer to him, settling her head more comfortably on his shoulder.

“Are you cold?” he asks after a moment of quiet.

“Not yet,” she answers. “Oh...” she breathes, suddenly sitting up and pointing.

“Speaking of shooting stars,” he says, bringing forth a small smile. He looks over to see his partner's eyes closed. He knows she isn't sleeping. She's wishing.

 _I wonder for what she now_ _wishes_ _. Our success in defeating Moloch, perhaps?_ Crane's eyes track her familiar face, a face he knows as well as his own, a face he could describe with perfect accuracy and precision, but not without using adjectives like _lovely_ and _flawless_ and _sublime._

Abbie's eyes remain closed, and Crane impulsively decides to throw both caution and propriety to the wind, seize a wish of his own, and take action. He leans over and brushes his lips across hers in a feather-light kiss. A caress.

Her eyes fly open in surprise, but she does not look angry or upset. His face hovers, inches from hers, and he looks anxious as he awaits her reaction.

Her lips part slightly, her breathing shallow. “Do that again,” she whispers.

Crane's eyes drop to her lips for a fraction of a second, then return to her eyes. He leans forward and kisses her once more, pressing a bit this time, more like a proper kiss.

Abbie's parted lips entice him, and his tongue slides forward just enough to flick against her upper lip before he pulls away.

“Maybe there _i_ _s_ something to wishing on falling stars,” Abbie sighs, smiling.


	7. Whither Must I Wander?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> XVI Whither Must I Wander?
> 
> Home no more home to me, whither must I wander?   
> Hunger my driver, I go where I must.   
> Cold blows the winter wind over hill and heather;   
> Thick drives the rain, and my roof is in the dust.   
> Loved of wise men was the shade of my roof-tree.   
> The true word of welcome was spoken in the door –  
> Dear days of old, with the faces in the firelight,   
> Kind folks of old, you come again no more.   
> Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces,   
> Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child.   
> Fire and the windows bright glittered on the moorland;   
> Song, tuneful song, built a palace in the wild.   
> Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland,   
> Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold.   
> Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed,   
> The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old.   
> Spring shall come, come again, calling up the moorfowl,   
> Spring shall bring the sun and rain, bring the bees and flowers;   
> Red shall the heather bloom over hill and valley,   
> Soft flow the stream through the even-flowing hours;   
> Fair the day shine as it shone on my childhood –  
> Fair shine the day on the house with open door;   
> Birds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney –   
> But I go for ever and come again no more.

I hate this dollhouse now. When Jenny and I were kids, it was our “happy place”. We would play with it for hours, absorbed in our world of make-believe.

Little did I know.

I would have hurled it into the street, right in front of an oncoming semi truck.

Probably would have gotten into trouble for doing it, but still.

(Even though Jenny and I _found_ the dollhouse.)

If I had known then...

It is my prison.

It is my hell.

I never want to see the color pink again.

I now know every inch of this place. I try to avoid the younger versions of my sister and myself. They're not terribly helpful anymore.

To be honest, they kind of creep me out.

(Kind of = very much.)

I have lost track of the days. There is no day, no night, no way to mark the passage of time.

It is always dark. Always _seem_ s like night, but there is no moon, no stars.

I used to look out of the windows when I grew weary of my pink plastic prison.

I don't anymore. The sights outside are far more disturbing than the ones inside. All those lost souls. Damaged people, who were once human, now doomed to this existence for an unspecified amount of time. They are horrible to behold, but they are even more horrible to ponder.

Once, as I gazed out, I tried to amuse myself by playing “Guess the Sin”.

Bad idea.

I wound up feeling worse. Like, inappropriate. Wrong. Dirty.

Now, I mainly sit on the least-uncomfortable seat in the house, keeping to myself.

Sometimes, he comes lurking. Skulking. Prowling. _Banging._

Moloch.

I am safe from him here, but I am no less a prisoner.

Which is better? Trapped and alive or free and in constant danger?

Or, free and dead?

He wants my soul. Why? I do not know, but he wants it. Wants it so badly he has manipulated all of us to get me here.

And Henry, holy hell. Jeremy. I can't even imagine what awful things he may be doing up there.

( _Ou_ _t_ there? _Ove_ _r_ there? I have no idea.)

Sometimes, I sleep, but it is out of sheer boredom. I don't feel tired. Or hungry. No need to pee, or shower, or... anything.

No need to do anything except _sit here and stew in my thoughts._

When I do sleep, the dreams are strange and troubling.

I dream that the creatures outside, those poor, tortured souls, infiltrate the house and drag me out, pulling and pushing at me until I am one of them. A deformed, hideous abomination with too many legs or not enough eyes or scales or a tail. Or all of those things.

I dream I am home, back in the world. Things are normal. I've gone to Quantico and this whole Witness thing never existed. Interestingly, that was one of the worst dreams. Because I woke up and found I was still _here._

I dream about my parents. About Jenny.

I dream about Crane. I dream things regarding my partner I never imagined I'd dream.

Horrible things. Abusive, hurtful, _hateful_ things.

But, not always.

Sometimes, my dreams about Crane involve _other_ things.

Things that make me wake up flushed, frustrated, and bewildered; things that I'd only _read_ about in the smutty Harlequin romance books my mom used to leave lying around. Things that will make it very difficult to look my fellow witness in the eye when I see him again.

If I see him again.

 _When_ I see him again.

I dream Moloch tears the roof off the dollhouse, plucks me out, and carries me off to some sort of lair, where he...

No.

No. Do _not_ relive that one.

I do not sleep any more. After the series of sex dreams (yes, series) with Crane and the Moloch nightmare, I decided I was Done.

I only hope they do not continue when I return to the world.

(If I return.)

( _When_ I return.)

It's getting more difficult to stay positive.

Time has no meaning.

I have no way of knowing how long I've been gone.

Time may not even pass the same way here as it does there. A year could have passed already. Or, a day.

To what, exactly, will I return?

( _Will_ I return?)

(Shut up.)

(He promised.)

I can't even begin to think about the possibilities. Not knowing _when_ I'll get back is a hindrance.

How will Jenny react when she finds out I stayed here?

Will Crane and Katrina return to being a happily married couple?

(Not sure I trust her.)

If so, will I feel like the third wheel? How will it affect my relationship with Crane?

And what about Henry? Jeremy? What kind of Hell is he unleashing?

And—

_BANG._

Shit.

_BANG BANG._

Time to hide.

“Lieutenant!”

Crane?

(Another trick.)

(Not him.)

“Lieutenant! Miss Mills!”

_BANG._

No, Legs, don't take me to the door.

Damn it, if you're trying to walk, _stop shaking._

“Miss... _Mills_!”

_BANG. Creak._

Is he breaking through? That had damn well better be Crane.

(It isn't.)

It looks like him. I can see him through the cheap plastic window.

“Abbie!”

I can sense Little Me and Little Jenny hovering in the background. Watching.

_BANG BANG._

_Creak._

“I have returned for you as I promised!”

_BANG._

_CRACK._

“Prove it!”

I don't remember the last time I spoke aloud.

“Somehow I...” _BANG_ “think a...” _BANG_ “fist-bump...” _BANG_ “will not suffice... _BANG_ “this time...” _BANG_ _._

_CRACK._

He's dented the door, and it's splitting.

“You got that right.”

Stillness.

“Doughnut holes. The outrageous ten-percent levy on baked goods. I thought only horses slept standing up. Cousin... ugh... _Steve._ Skinny jeans.”

I can _hear_ the sneer in his voice.

(Am I smiling a little? I had forgotten what it felt like.)

“I _still_ choose to forge my fate with you, Abbie. Despite what I've done that may have contradicted my words.”

“I can't open the door. It won't let me.”

_BANG. BANG. BANG!_

(Moloch is going to hear this.)

_**CRACK.** _

“Abbie.”

His eyes are haunted.

“Ichabod.”


	8. Bright is the ring of words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> XIV Bright is the ring of words 
> 
> Bright is the ring of words   
> When the right man rings them,  
> Fair the fall of songs  
> When the singer sings them.  
> Still they are carolled and said –  
> On wings they are carried –  
> After the singer is dead  
> And the maker buried.
> 
> Low as the singer lies  
> In the field of heather,  
> Songs of his fashion bring  
> The swains together.   
> And when the west is red  
> With the sunset embers,  
> The lover lingers and sings,  
> And the maid remembers.

If she is completely honest, Abbie wasn't terribly surprised when Crane kissed her.

They arrived back at the cabin _just_ before the skies opened up. Crane took a quick look up, grabbed Abbie's hand, and ran the short distance from the car to the porch, pulling his partner behind him to ensure she made it in time.

A second later, rain poured down as if the clouds were plastic bags, heavy with water, and a giant hand had come along and cut a slit in the bottom. It was sudden, heavy, and cold. In less than one second, the world had become completely drenched.

“I think I'll wait it out,” Abbie had said, breathing heavily, as they stood outside and watched the rain.

“I believe that is a wise decision,” Crane agreed. He was still holding her hand.

It was a relatively quiet day, if dealing with the _still_ not dead Andy Brooks could be considered “quiet”. Three years and he's still lingering, looking more unnatural every time they encounter him.

Katrina managed to escape Abraham's and Moloch's clutches, but she had to (permanently) die to do so. Andy, however, lingers. He, a conflicted minion of the demon, a zombie creature hiding from light and life, lingers.

He had another, predictable message for them. Thankfully, after the ordeal in Washington's tomb two years ago, he stopped trying to curry Abbie's favor, but he continues to gaze at the lieutenant in a way that always makes Crane position himself between the two of them.

“You got any food?” Abbie asks, looking up at him. Distant thunder rumbles ominously.

“Some,” he says, releasing her hand to turn and unlock the door. “I am overdue for a trip to the market, unfortunately,” he adds, stepping aside, thus encouraging her to enter first.

“Yeah, I know, I am, too. Sorry,” Abbie answers, allowing Crane to lift her coat from her shoulders. He has learned how to drive for practicality's sake (“Crane, what happens if I _can't_ drive, hmm?”), but Abbie still does most of the driving and he doesn't have enough money (or a credit record) to buy a car. “Maybe we can try tomorrow. Pretty sure my milk has turned into some kind of...” she pauses, opening the refrigerator door and peering inside, “evil cottage cheese by now. Ah.” She pulls out some takeout boxes from a couple of days ago and goes about reheating them while he hangs up their coats.

“This is quite a storm,” Crane comments, looking outside. He stands in front of the window, his long, lean form silhouetted against the gray light outside. “I can scarcely see the lake.”

“Wow,” Abbie comments, pulling out two plates and two forks. “I always... oh.” She turns and sees Crane has disappeared. The bathroom door is closed, so she shrugs and returns to the microwave, singing softly to herself.

Through the bathroom door, Crane faintly hears her singing as he washes his hands. He angles his head, listening. When he turns the water off, he can make out the words.

He's heard his partner sing or hum on many occasions, and has always found her voice to be lovely and tuneful, even if he doesn't always enjoy the content. Modern music still sounds like baffling noise to his ears, and he avoids most of it the way he avoids modern clothing.

Divested of his boots, Crane silently walks back to the kitchen, listening to Abbie's singing. He's never heard this song.

Outside, there is a flash of lightning followed by a clap of thunder. The cabin creaks slightly as the wind picks up.

“Fish in the sea, you know how I feel. River runnin’ free, you know how I feel. Blossom on the tree, you know how I feel. It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life for me, and I'm feelin'—” Abbie turns and suddenly stops, mid hip-swing, and almost drops the plates.

“Please, do not stop on my account,” he quietly says, a half-smile playing about his face, left eyebrow predictably cocked.

“Um, food's ready,” Abbie answers, handing him the plates and avoiding his gaze. It holds an intensity she is not sure is _actually_ there.

“You have a beautiful singing voice, Miss Mills,” he says, putting the plates on the table. “I do enjoy listening to it.”

She looks back at him and, though he is beside the table, he is still studying her, and the expression in his eyes is making her a little warmer than it should. That intensity is _definitely_ there. She blinks and continues. “I thought you found modern music to be... what did you say? 'A cacophonous barrage of immorality'?” she asks.

He smiles and walks towards her, into the kitchen. “Not _all_ modern music,” he says, retrieving two bottles of water from the refrigerator.

“Just _most_ modern music,” she replies, lightly brushing past him with the reheated takeout containers in her hands, which she brings to the table.

He waits until she is seated before he sits.

“I should like to hear more of that song,” Crane says. “It was most intriguing.”

“I'll pull it up on my iPod after dinner,” Abbie answers, looking at her food.

“Will you not sing the rest?”

“I don't know all the words. Most, but not all.”

“I do not mind. I daresay I would not know the difference,” he says, smiling.

“I do and I would,” she counters, finally looking up at him. She returns his smile and softly sighs, realizing he’s not trying to tease or embarrass her; he’s merely curious.

There is another flash of lightning, another crack of ear-splitting thunder, and the power goes out.

“At least I got the food heated up,” Abbie says after a moment.

“I have candles,” Crane says, standing. He navigates the cabin flawlessly in the pitch darkness, the layout indelibly imprinted on his brain. He returns a moment later with two candles, holders, and a box of matches. He quickly lights them, then returns to his meal as though there was no interruption.

They eat quietly, listening to the sound of the rain and wind as it batters the cabin, to the thunder as it rumbles with increasing frequency.

“What kind of songs did you sing back in the day?” Abbie suddenly asks, setting her fork down. “'Yankee Doodle'?”

“Yes, it was on every Revolutionary War soldier's iPod,” Crane answers, rolling his eyes. Abbie snorts a small laugh, leaning back in her chair and wrapping her arms around herself, beginning to feel a slight chill. “You would likely be surprised at the amount of what would be considered 'popular music' back in 'the day', as you insist upon calling my former time period.”

“Really? I thought it was mainly church music,” she says, starting to clear the dishes now that Crane has finished. He stands and moves to the living room.

“Well, of course, but there were other songs as well,” he calls over his shoulder, hunched in front of the fireplace where he is stacking kindling, setting a fire for light as well as warmth.

“Yes, like I said: 'Yankee Doodle'.”

Crane _humphs_ and sets a few larger logs on the fire. He grabs a blanket and moves to the couch. “Leave the dishes, Lieutenant,” he calls. “Come warm yourself.”

“It's only two plates and two forks, Crane, and they're done,” she says, yanking her boots off and setting them by the door beside his much larger ones before retrieving the candles from the table. Her steps falter when she sees him waiting for her on the couch, covered by half a blanket. The other half is folded back, waiting for her to climb in beside him.

“You are already catching a chill, Abbie. I could see it while we dined,” he softly says. She sets the candles on the coffee table, sits on the couch, and allows him to cover her with the blanket.

It's very warm. Cozy.

Lightning. Thunder.

“There were many songs,” Crane continues, “on many subjects. We would teach each other the songs we knew from our various homes. There were songs of religion, yes. Love, of course. Love lost, love found. War, death, children. Much like popular songs today, though much more subtle and much less... jarring.”

Abbie nods, finding herself leaning against him, the soft timbre of his voice combined with the warmth of his body drawing her closer, making her want to cuddle against him. She tucks her feet up at her side, warming them beneath the blanket.

“Subtle,” she chuckles. “Ain't much subtle in music these days.”

“Indeed not,” he agrees. He lifts his arm and wraps it around her shoulder, and she shifts closer, leans against him more. He's surprisingly comfortable for someone so thin.

A particularly loud boom of thunder catches Abbie off guard and she jumps, startled. Crane's arm instinctively tightens around her.

“Just surprised me, that's all,” she mutters, staring into the fire.

He murmurs a wordless acknowledgment. A moment later, he begins to sing.

“Black, black, black is the color of my true love's hair. Her lips are like a rose so fair. And the prettiest face and the neatest hands. I love the grass whereon she stands, she with the wondrous hair.”

Abbie is struck dumb by several things. His singing voice, which she has never heard before this very moment. It's a soft baritone, as rich and resonant as his speaking voice. The words of the song. Finally, the gentle press of what can only be a kiss on the crown of her head.

_Is he just singing a sample song, or is he... telling me something?_

“That's...” her voice disappears, not finding the words.  
Crane continues with the next verse. “Black, black, black is the color of my true love's hair. Her face is something truly rare. Oh, I do love my love and so well she knows. I love the ground whereon she goes. She with the wondrous hair.”

She looks up at him now, her brown eyes wide, and as she looks at him, she _knows_ he did not choose this song at random.

He brushes his lips against her forehead. Beneath the blanket, his hand finds hers and he twines their fingers together.  
“Black, black, black is the color of my true love's hair. Alone, my life would be so bare. I would sigh, I would weep, I would never fall asleep. My love is 'way beyond compare. She with the wondrous hair. Black, black, black is the color of my true love's hair.”

So, no, Abbie Mills is not surprised when Ichabod Crane kisses her.

She is, however, surprised by the skill with which he kisses. She's never felt such ardor from a kiss, especially considering his mouth remained closed.

He pulls back too soon, his eyes wide and dazed, pupils large as he stares down at her upturned face. Lightning briefly illuminates the cabin, followed very closely by the accompanying thunder. “Abbie,” he hoarsely murmurs her name.

“Ichabod,” she responds. Clamoring for her wits, she blinks a few times. “You... didn't pick that song by chance, did you?” she asks, her voice a whisper. Somewhere, her brain registers his arms are completely around her and she is half on his lap. Her hands are resting on his chest, and she has no recollection of moving them there.

“No, I chose it very specifically,” Crane answers, brushing his lips against her cheek. Her eyes flutter closed at their touch. “And, though I did not pen the lyrics,” he pauses, kissing her forehead, nose, and finally, lips again, “I meant each word I sang.” He kisses her yet again, and she melts against him. “Though, I am well aware your hair is, in fact, very dark brown.”

Abbie smiles. “Close enough,” she whispers, bringing a hand up to his cheek. Her fingertips rest on bare skin; her thumb rubs lightly across his beard. “I've never been serenaded before.”

“Truly a pity,” he answers, leaning into her touch. “I have loved you for many months, Abbie,” he admits. “Perhaps longer, though I cannot say for certain.”

She moves her thumb, tracing his lower lip with it, and his eyes close at the caress. “I love you, too, Ichabod. I don't even know for how long, because it feels like I always have.”

Crane opens his eyes and smiles at her. “I am so glad you requite my feelings,” he says, sounding more relieved than Abbie would have thought.

 _I suppose I do play things pretty close to the vest._ She lifts her chin and kisses him, her actions emphasizing her words. He starts to draw back, but she moves her hand into his hair, telling him she's not done kissing him yet. Prompting him for more.

He makes a soft groaning noise and his tongue slips forward, asking for entry into her mouth. She immediately parts her lips for him, meeting his tongue with a boldness to which he is unaccustomed, but finds he loves.

He tightens his arms around her and pulls her fully onto his lap, his lips never leaving hers. The blanket falls to the floor. Lightning strikes again, its accompanying thunder almost immediate.

“Abbie...” Crane gasps, moving his lips to her jaw, then venturing lower. Abbie drops her head back and he kisses a hot trail down the length of her neck. He is murmuring what sounds like her name and words of endearment the entire time, and she feels the vibrations of his words against her skin.

Whatever they are. She can't even tell anymore.

“Ichabod... oh...”

He lifts his head, thinking he's gone too far. His right hand slowly, almost sheepishly releases the back of her shirt, which he had somehow bunched in his fist, untucking it.

“Don't stop,” Abbie says, looking down at him from her position on his lap.

“Oh... I thought I'd...”

“You haven't gone too far, trust me,” she says, kissing him hungrily. When she reaches into his hair and tugs free the band holding his ponytail, he groans, but gently pulls away. Again.

He blinks. “I fear if I told you what I wanted, you would be scandalized,” he quietly says.

“Try me,” she challenges, raising an eyebrow.

He levels his gaze at her, looking directly into her deep brown eyes. “I want to take you to bed.”

This time, it is Abbie's eyes that widen. Not at hearing his words, but that he said them at all. And so plainly.

Still, she gathers her resolve, sponges up the puddle she's become, and smirks impishly at him. “Oh, is that all?” she saucily returns.

His eyebrow raises just as more lightning strikes outside, giving him a very brief otherworldly appearance. Without a word, he rises, lifting her with him as though she weighed nothing, and carries her to his bed. He gently sets her upon it, kisses her deeply for a moment, then disappears, heading back to the living room to retrieve the candles.

“You look so beautiful in the candlelight, Miss Mills,” Crane states, setting the candles on the bedside table. “I would hate to miss out on the glorious opportunity to see all of you bathed in this soft, golden glow.” He drops onto the bed beside her, his rangy body spanning the length of it. He leans over and languidly kisses her lips, his hand sliding across her flat stomach. “However, seeing your face illuminated by the flash of lightning, producing a perfect, split-second image has proven quite enticing as well. I am thankful for my memory, as it allows me to recall at will those briefest of moments with perfect clarity,” he continues, skimming his lips down the side of her neck while his hand on her stomach continues its earlier work of untucking her shirt.

“Oh, God, you _do_ have some serious game,” Abbie softly answers, her voice slightly breathy. _He got Katrina and he wasn't even trying,_ she realizes. _Abraham never stood a chance._

She feels his chuckle against her neck as he recalls the conversation that now seems so long ago, though only two years have passed. She also feels his hand on her bare skin, his long fingers spanning her stomach, his thumb brushing the underside of her breast.

“Abbie,” he says, lifting his head. He kisses her lips once more. “Are you certain you wish to proceed? All you need to say is—”

“Yes,” she answers before he finishes. “Yes, _please_ proceed, Crane. Ichabod.” She lifts her lips to his, flicking his upper lip with her tongue.

He eases her up into a sitting position and she pulls her shirt off over her head. Then, she deliberately tugs at his. He understands her meaning and quickly removes his as well, tossing it to the floor atop hers. Then, he stands and removes his trousers and socks.

Abbie allows her eyes to rove his body as he returns to the bed, watching him unashamedly; pleased she can finally allow herself to freely look at his body without feeling guilty about it. “Damn,” she mutters her appreciation.

Crane smirks a moment, then returns his lips to her skin. “I love how you can convey so much with so few words,” he purrs against her throat, bringing his tongue forward to lick the soft hollow between her collarbones.

“You could learn that skill,” she answers, laughing as she runs her fingers through his hair. She gently pulls his head up to kiss him. “Maybe,” she amends, remembering his recent praise.

He smiles and kisses her nose. “I do not know how to remove this garment,” he quietly admits, running his finger along the top edge of her bra, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

She reaches around behind her, but he stops her before she can unclasp the suddenly too-restrictive garment.

“No. Show me, please. I would like to know,” Crane says, dropping soft kisses on her shoulder.

Abbie smiles and turns her back to him. “There is a clasp in the center. A little hook and… oh. Well. There you go,” she chuckles, Crane having opened it easily before she had finished giving instructions.

He leans forward and kisses each of her shoulder blades in turn, then nudges her hair, still restrained in a low ponytail, aside to trail a few kisses up her spine. “Your back is a work of art,” he murmurs against her skin, which is soft and smooth and smells faintly of melons and cucumbers.

Her head drops forward, his every kiss and caress sending delicious chills through her. _I never imagined my back was so sensitive. It could just be him though._

He kisses the side of her neck, then finally reaches up and slides the straps of her bra from her shoulders. She lets the garment fall down her arms until she catches it and tosses it aside. His hands snake around her and come up to cover the newly-exposed mounds, choosing to touch them before he sees them.

“Mmm,” he hums appreciatively against her neck, his large hands gently caressing, learning the feel of her. His thumb skims a taut nipple, drawing a soft gasp from her, and he moves, laying her back down on the bed.

The lightning flashes as though Crane had bidden it to do so, and he smiles as he gazes down at Abbie. She returns his smile, takes his hands, and brings them to the button at the front of her jeans.

Crane needs no further instruction and soon, Abbie is assisting him in peeling the snug garment down her legs. He drinks in her lean, shapely limbs as they become exposed to his appreciative gaze. He's only seen them twice in three years, on the rare occasions Abbie has had to wear a skirt, and both times he tried not to stare at her well-formed, slender legs.

Jeans divested, he kisses his way up one leg, pauses thoughtfully at her sky blue lace panties, then continues up, placing wet kisses on her stomach and between her breasts on his way back to her lips. She writhes deliciously beneath him, her small body calling out to his.

Crane has been in this century long enough and knows enough about modern courtship rituals to not have any illusions about his partner's virginity. Thankfully, he realizes he doesn't care about her past. He knows he is not her first, but neither is she his (nor was Katrina, honestly). All that matters is the present and future. They love each other and she is here with him now. That is enough.

_I may not be her first lover, but I will do everything in my power to ensure she will choose me as her las_ _t._

He spends a few decadent moments kissing her lips, his tongue snaking around hers, reveling in how she responds, meeting and matching every sweep of his tongue with one of her own.

“Abbie,” Crane leans back just enough to see her lovely face, “I... I trust the taboos in place during my time are no longer of any concern?”

Abbie quirks her head at him. “I don't know exactly what was considered 'taboo' back then, but... no. These days, anything goes, as long as both parties consent.”

A sly smile creeps across his face, and she feels a hot flush race across her body. “So...” he moves his right hand, sliding it down her body, “I may touch... _anywhere_? Even...” he skims his hand down her thigh and back up, stopping at the apex of her thighs, “...here?”

“Mmm, _especially_ there,” she says, angling her hips upward, pressing against his hand.

He makes a low growling noise that makes her heartbeat pick up. It also prompts her hand to do some wandering of its own, searching out the hard length she feels pressing against her thigh. She grasps him through the material of his boxers, and he inhales sharply.

His reaction _almost_ makes her withdraw her hand, but she can't seem to let him go. “No one has ever touched you here before?” she whispers, lifting up to kiss him. She moves her hand, stroking him through the fabric.

“Oh... simply because it was 'not done',” he says, his voice slightly hoarse from her attention, “does not mean we did not _d_ _o_ ,” he states with a sly lift of an eyebrow. “What transpired behind closed doors…” he finishes his sentence by pressing his fingers just hard enough to elicit a soft moan from Abbie. He moves his hand, slipping it into her panties.

“Ooo,” she purrs, her hips rolling against his hand.

He slides his fingers gently into her moist warmth, moving just enough to make her crave more, then removes them, reaching for her waistband. She eagerly helps him divest her of her last remaining piece of clothing.

“Now, you,” she says, returning her hands to his waist. He quickly yanks his boxers off, kicking them to the floor.

Completely naked, they take a moment to regard one another.

They are both struck by the level of comfort they feel lying together naked on his bed. There is no awkwardness or embarrassment. It could be a result of their bond as Witnesses. It could be the fact they’ve spent the last year dancing around each other, trying to deny their feelings for one another. It could simply be they've grown accustomed to always being so close, always together, that taking this step feels like the most natural thing in the word.

Perhaps it is all three.

“You are perfection. Petite, beautiful perfection,” Crane quietly says, leaning down to kiss her.

Abbie reaches up and traces the large scar on his chest, then trails her fingers down to his stomach, loving how his muscles jump beneath her fingertips. “Wow,” she sighs. “I wish I had the words.”

He catches her wandering hand and kisses her fingertips. “You do not need words, my love. I can see it in your eyes, read it in your expression,” he says. “And, I daresay, I have words enough for us both.”

She smiles and pulls him over her, needing his lips, his kisses. “I love you, Ichabod,” she whispers against his lips before hungrily claiming them.

He softly closes a hand over one of her breasts, thumb rubbing back and forth across her nipple, teasing it to a stiff nub. “You are my very heartbeat, Abbie,” he whispers, leaving her lips to make his way to her breasts, kissing and nipping lightly as he goes until he reaches his target.

His tongue slips and slides around her nipple as he kisses and sucks, worshipping her with his mouth. His hand makes its way between her thighs and she parts them wider for him, her fingers in his hair, gently grazing his scalp.

Abbie moans softly and reaches down, searching for his manhood. He is so much taller, she can't reach him and she grips his shoulder instead. He delves two fingers inside her and she responds by lightly raking her nails down his back.

Crane groans, rumbling against her chest as he kisses his way to her other breast. His beard tickles, leaving her skin tingling and feeling slightly raw, but in a curiously good way.

“Ichabod...” she mews, moving her hips in time with his deft fingers as they caress her, circling and plunging until she is nothing but sensation.

“Abbie... my love... may I...?”

“God, _yes,_ ” she answers his unasked question. In a moment of clarity, she pushes his shoulders and sits up, slinging her leg over him. At last, he understands her intent and rolls onto his back, pulling her with him, a question in his eyes.

“Abbie?”

“Easier this way. You're too tall,” she says, leaning down to kiss him. “Or, I'm too short.”

He smiles. “Perhaps it is some of both,” he replies. “I must say I quite like this view.”

She returns his smile and reaches back for him, stroking him softly a few times while she spends a few more moments kissing him. She slides down a bit, positioning herself. She kisses him again, sliding her tongue luxuriantly against his as she sinks down onto him.

“Oh...” Crane tears his lips away, overcome. “Good gracious,” he gasps.

“Oh, yeah,” Abbie agrees, rocking her hips as she begins to move, her small hands braced on his chest, fingers spread.

“More...” he prompts, his voice tinged with desperation as his hands grip her hips, encouraging her. His control is slipping away, his love and desire for her sprouting wings and flying straight from his heart into hers, tethering them together.

“More?” she gasps, leaning forward, downward, shifting her position a bit so she is laying more than sitting on him. She twines her legs with his for added leverage to give him _more._

“Oh, Abbie... my love,” he groans, his hands running up and down her back until they settle on her rear. “My every fantasy... most decadent dream... they are nothing... inadequate... compared to the... exceptional reality of your... lips... breasts... thighs...” his words fail, descending into garbled groans as he loses control, loses himself completely in her.

She leans up and kisses him, first sucking on his bottom lip, then thrusting her tongue into his mouth, whimpering against his lips.

Her breasts rub deliciously against his chest hair, and every place they touch makes her feel supercharged. “Oh, God...” Abbie moans, her peak rapidly approaching, “oh... ah... mmm...” Her fingers suddenly tighten, digging into his shoulders, and Crane opens his eyes in time to see her climax over him, accompanied by a very well-timed flash of lightning, capturing her lovely face with her head thrown back, mouth open in a wordless _O_. She feels like she is soaring, her heart full.

“Beautiful,” he manages to croak out a hoarse whisper, her unraveling triggering his impending release. “Abbie, I must... I should...”

“It's okay,” she tells him, her breathing still rapid and shallow, “stay where you are.”

He doesn't stop to think or question her words. He trusts her, and if she says “stay”, he will stay. He doesn't have _time_ to think about it, because he is plummeting, flooding his release into her, wrapping his arms tightly around her as he growls her name, his nose in her hair.

Abbie relaxes over him and takes a long, slow breath, her head on his chest. “Oh, wow,” she says at length.

“I wholeheartedly agree,” Crane says, sighing contentedly, his arms still around her.

The thunder rumbles, but it continues to grow distant. The storm is passed; however, the rain still taps on the windows and roof.

From the kitchen, Abbie’s phone rings.

“That’s Jenny,” she says, but doesn’t move.

“She will be worried for your well-being, my love,” he reminds her, but doesn’t loosen his hold on her.

A minute later, Crane’s phone rings, also in the kitchen.

“Probably Jenny,” Abbie chuckles. “You don’t have different ringtones for different people—”

“Pointless endeavor,” he mutters.

She snorts. “But, I’m sure it’s her.”

“You should set her mind at ease,” he says, dragging his fingers up Abbie’s spine, sending a chill through her. She squirms, and he inhales sharply at the feel of her lithe body writhing atop his.

“Down, Boy,” Abbie says, feeling his manhood twitch, still half-sheathed within her. She pushes herself up, kisses his lips, then gently rolls off of him. She goes into the bathroom for a minute or two, then out to the kitchen, wearing his bathrobe. The sleeves hang well past her hands.

Crane pulls the blanket over himself, listening to his love moving around his small house.

“Hey,” he hears her voice, “yeah, um, we were both just in another room and too lazy to get to our phones… hmm? Nothing. _Nothing._ ”

The lights suddenly turn on, and he smiles as he sees the shaft of illumination from the kitchen switch off with a decisive _click._

“No, we’re fine… power went out. It’s back on now.” He hears her pick up the poker on the hearth and spread the remnants of their abandoned fire in the fireplace, then replace the poker into the holder. She appears a moment later and sits on the bed. He watches as her eyes widen. “Um, right. I’m not having this conversation. See you tomorrow.”

As she pulls the phone away from her face to disconnect, Crane distinctly hears Jenny’s voice triumphantly exclaim, “I knew—” before Abbie can press the button. She looks down at Crane and sighs.

“It seems our feelings for each other were obvious to everyone apart from ourselves,” he drily states, trying unsuccessfully not to smile.

“Shut up,” she says, laughing, and hits him with a pillow.

“Come here,” Crane rumbles, tugging at the tie on her robe. Once opened, Abbie shrugs out of it and slips beneath the covers beside him, her body pressed to his side. She still has her phone in her hand, and starts poking around. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for that song,” she says. “Honestly, three years and no Nina Simone? Shame on me for being so negligent. Here.” She passes him the phone, it’s a YouTube video of Nina Simone’s version of “Feeling Good”, the song Abbie had been singing earlier.

“Not much in the way of visuals, but the song is wonderful,” Crane comments.

“Yeah, sometimes it’s just pictures of the performer with the music playing. But, the music is the important part.” She rests her head on his shoulder, watching the screen with him, her leg draped over his thighs.

“Thank you,” he says when the song has finished. “Though, I still think I would prefer to hear your voice.” He leans down and kisses her, softly and slowly.

“Your objectivity may be impaired right now,” Abbie says, looking up at him. “But, it’s very sweet of you to say.” She takes her phone back. “Let’s see if we can find your song…”

“I very much doubt it will still be around,” he says, skeptical. “Given modern society’s penchant for eschewing anything older than, oh, 50 years, as being—”

“Holy crap,” Abbie says, interrupting. “Why have I never seen this?”

“What?” Crane asks, intrigued. She shows him.

“Not only is your song still around, we have Miss Nina _singing_ your song.” She pokes the screen and the video starts to play, a live performance.

“I stand happily corrected,” Crane mutters. He is quickly entranced by the video, watching the small screen with rapt attention.

The song finishes, and he kisses her again. “Thank you again, dear Abbie, for sharing these with me. I enjoyed the new version of my old song very much.”

“You’re welcome, Ichabod. I’m glad you liked it,” she says, reaching back to place her phone (which is now set to Vibrate) on the bedside table.

They lay entwined in each other’s arms for a while, absorbing their newfound closeness, taking advantage of things they had denied themselves before now: little touches, small kisses. Crane tucks a lock of Abbie’s hair behind her ear and kisses her temple, whispering, “I love you,” against her skin. She squeezes him tightly, nuzzling his neck, answering him without words.

“Abbie?” he asks after some time.

“Hmm?”

“Are you not afraid of… becoming with child? I mean, s _omeday_ I would be overjoyed if you… that is, if we…”

“Crane, I take medicine that keeps me from getting pregnant. It’s a common thing now,” she explains. She leans up and kisses him. “I was wondering when you were going to ask,” she adds, smiling. She kisses him again. “But, yes, someday. After we stop the world from ending.”

His eyes light up, he smiles more broadly than she’s ever seen, and he hugs her tightly. “Now, it is I who is at a loss for words,” he murmurs into her hair.

“We’ll have to mark this occasion,” she says, leaning up again to kiss him, shifting so she is lying on top of him again.

“I have one more question,” Crane says, unexpectedly pulling away.

“Yes?” Abbie patiently replies.

“When you said, ‘anything goes’, did you truly mean _anything_?”

He’s got a glint in his eye that makes Abbie’s heart speed up a bit. “W-with consent, yes—Oh!”

In the blink of an eye, he’s flipped them so she is on her back beneath him, and he is kissing his way down her body again, a man on a mission.

“Oh…” Abbie breathes, only half-wondering about the nature of his intent.

He nestles his head between her thighs, gives her a crafty look, then Abbie’s body arches off the bed as his tongue finds its goal.

“Oh, God… oh, I consent…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The songs mentioned can be found here:
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NWmCbEbMmeU
> 
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D5Y11hwjMNs


	9. I Have Trod the Upward and the Downward Slope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> XXII I Have Trod the Upward and the Downward Slope
> 
> I have trod the upward and the downward slope;   
> I have endured and done in days before;   
> I have longed for all, and bid farewell to hope;   
> And I have lived and loved, and closed the door.

_Not again..._

These are the first words that drift into Ichabod Crane's mind as he scrambles to a seated position, blinking dirt from his eyes, shaking dirt from his hair, spitting dirt from his mouth.

It is dark, as he expected, but there is a faint light source providing a soft, bluish light.

_Why must it always be a dirty cave?_

Senses returning to him, he frantically looks around, his heart pounding. He is still sitting half-buried in his grave as his eyes search the dim chamber. _No, no, please... do_ not _tell me I am alone_.

A noise to his left draws his attention and his head sharply turns. He sees nothing at first, then, he looks down to see the dirt pushing up. He holds his breath, waiting.

Hoping.

A moment later, a small hand breaks through, then another, followed by a head bursting up from the ground and a loud gasp.

Crane breathes again, a relieved smile spreading across his dirty face when he sees her.

“Abbie,” he croaks, his voice strange and hoarse. He reaches a hand over, and she desperately grasps it.

Mindless of the dirt, he leans over and kisses her hand. Then, he hauls himself the rest of the way out of his hole and scrambles to assist his partner.

Crane has been here before. Awakened after having been in a death-like sleep for an indeterminate amount of time.

Abbie has not.

He gently pulls her to her feet and brushes the dirt from her clothes as best he can, ignoring the grime still clinging to his clothing. He stops, resting his hands on her shoulders for a moment.

She's trembling. Slightly, but definitely.

He immediately wraps his arms around her, pulling her into his embrace.

“What year is it?” she asks, her voice a whisper.

“I do not yet know,” he answers, looking, once again, around the chamber.

Abbie leans back slightly, looking up at him, her eyes wide. “Wow. This really...”

“...sucks,” he supplies, nodding in agreement.

Her face clouds as she studies him in the dim light. Memories of various temptations and deceptions flood into her brain, and she suddenly feels skeptical and uneasy. “So... you're still... you?” The words fall out despite the fact that he just used a term he had learned from her.

His brow furrows. “I'm sorry?”

She releases him and steps back a little. “You're still the same person?”

“I believe so,” he answers. “Abbie, what are...?”

“What is your full name?” she asks, narrowing her eyes slightly.

 _Ah, I see. She is testing me. Probably a wise choice._ “Ichabod Crane,” he simply answers.

“What is your middle name?”

“I have two. Marcus Ambrose.”

“Hmm. What is your favorite food? Favorite _21_ _st_ _Century_ food, I mean,” she asks, still not mollified.

“Buffalo wings,” he immediately answers. “But, chocolate ice cream is a very close second.”

She steps forward. “What was the last thing you said to me before everything went black?”

He steps towards her, reaches his hand to her cheek, and caresses it. “I said, 'I love you, Treasure,' and then I kissed you,” he whispers, tracing her lower lip with his thumb.

Her eyes close at the touch. “The first time you kissed me. Where and when?”

By now, Crane is fairly certain she just wants to hear him speak these memories, and, as always, he indulges her. “June 20, 2016, in the Archives, over a thick tome about demonic sigils and protective spells. And, Chinese food,” he murmurs, kissing her lips softly. “10:14 p.m.”

“Ichabod,” she sighs, returning to his embrace. “I'm sorry... I... I had to check,” she apologizes, lifting up on her toes to kiss him.

“I understand,” he answers. “This is all very confusing.”

They lived for two years after they defeated Moloch. Long enough to allow them a glimmer of a regular life, of happiness, of the illusion that their lives would be normal now, but not long enough to truly enjoy it.

Or raise their son.

“Corbin...” Abbie suddenly exclaims, her voice hitching with emotion.

“Shh, Abbie, I am certain Jenny took excellent care of him,” he reassures her, though he is also wondering what became of their child.

She nods, granting him a small smile. “I'm glad you're here. If I'd been alone, I...”

“You would have been just fine, Lieutenant,” he assures her. “However, _two_ witnesses are required—”

“Again,” she interrupts with a sigh.

“Again, yes,” he allows, “so two witnesses shall there be. It would make no sense at all for only one of us to awaken. We are a team, you and I.” He leans down and kisses her forehead, not caring that it is dirty.

Abbie wraps her arms tighter around his waist, leaning her head against his chest. “Well, Partner, if I am going to be awakened each time Satan gets a bug up his butt, I'm glad it's with you,” she says.

Crane hugs her close, his arms wrapped securely around her. “As am I,” he agrees. He takes a deep breath and slowly releases it. “Now, my love, to business.”

“Right,” she agrees. “Where is that light coming from?”

“It appears to be coming from this direction,” he says, moving that way, taking her hand. They follow the light to its source, which turns out to be a curiously glowing blue cube on a small stone table.

“Interesting,” Abbie says. “Very _Star Trek._ ”

“Hmm,” Crane murmurs, walking up to the table. There is an item there, a rectangle that appears to be made of some kind of plastic or plexiglass, transparent and almost paper-thin. Crane lifts and turns it in his hands, inspecting it. He carefully holds it by its edges, not touching the surface.

“Let me see,” Abbie quietly says, reaching her hand out. “Technology is my area of expertise, not yours, remember?” she smiles as he places it in her hand.

“You think this is some sort of technology?” he asks.

“Hmm,” she murmurs. She pokes the center of the rectangle and it fires to life, lighting up in a starburst pattern, extending out from the place her finger touched.

Crane raises an eyebrow.

“ _Hello._ ” Words appear on the screen. “ _Please place your right thumbs on the circles._ ”

Abbie looks at Crane, and places her right thumb on one of the circles. He follows suit, placing his thumb on the other.

“ _Someone will attend you shortly, Mr. and Mrs. Crane,_ ” the readout says. “ _Please remain in the cavern._ ” Then, “ _Welcome back._ ”

“Okayyy...” Abbie says, staring at the now-blank screen. “They could have at least given us Angry Birds or something while we wait.” She returns the tablet to the table and leans against it, sighing heavily.

“Someone will attend us shortly, my love,” Crane says, echoing the words on the screen.

“Yes, but how short is 'shortly'? Five minutes? An hour?” she asks, rubbing her arms, trying to keep warm.

“Are you cold?” he asks, immediately looking around for something in which to enfold her. Finding nothing, he settles for his arms, pulling her against him to keep her warm with his body.

Abbie sighs. “I was going to say 'I missed you' or 'I missed this', but I haven't, because it seems like it was only yesterday we were in that car... accident... which must not have been an accident after all...” she trails off.

“Yes, I had the same thought,” Crane says, kissing the top of her head. “It must have been arranged. Predetermined. Isolate the two of us so we could be...”

“Put on ice for safekeeping until the _next_ apocalypse?” Abbie finishes, her voice grim. “Would have been nice if we had been consulted. Could have made arrangements, maybe negotiate a time for it so we didn't miss out on our son's _entire life,_ ” her voice becoming louder and angrier as she continues. She reaches up and wipes the tears falling from her eyes.

“Shh, darling, I know, I know. It's horribly unfair, and I promise you I will find out who is responsible as soon as I can.” He tries to reassure her, but she can hear the waver in his voice and knows he’s trying to be strong for her, even though he’s just as angry and upset about their child as she. Perhaps more so.

Then, she remembers he's been through this before. _Except last time, he didn't know he had a son. And then, the son turned out t_ _o_ _be the second Horseman..._

“Ichabod?” Abbie asks softly. “What... what if...” She stops, unable to even voice her fear. “What if Corbin is...?”

“I refuse to entertain such a notion. It simply cannot be. There is no possible way _our_ son would be on the side of evil. There is no possible way it... it would happen to me a... a _second_ time,” he spits the words out as tears brim in his eyes. He takes a deep breath. “No. The child of the Witnesses would _not_ be a Horseman or a demon or anything evil or... unnatural. Logic would dictate this. Yes.”

“You're trying to convince both of us,” she answers, squeezing him. “He was a very good baby,” she says, remembering. “Very sweet. Mild-tempered.”

“No idea from whom he would have inherited that quality,” Crane dryly remarks, looking down at her. “Surely, it was neither you nor me.”

Abbie snorts a watery laugh. “Hey... we don't know what year it is, either. So, there may be a chance...”

“Captain? Lieutenant?” A voice interrupts them, and Crane gently releases Abbie as they turn towards the voice.

It's a young man, perhaps in his mid-20s. He's dressed simply, in dark grey and black, his curly hair cropped close to his head. He is handsome, tall, and thin with a tawny complexion.

“Perhaps,” Crane cautiously answers.

The young man holds an ancient book, offering it to Crane. “I believe this is yours, sir.”

“Washington's Bible,” Crane whispers, receiving the precious tome. He looks up at their companion. “Who are you?”

The man looks from Crane to Abbie and then back again. “My name is Marcus.”

Ichabod blinks.

“Marcus?” Abbie softly asks.

“Marcus August Crane,” he clarifies. “I'm your... nine times great grandson.”

Abbie sways on her feet. Crane, though stunned, reaches out to steady her.

“My father was Corbin Ichabod Crane. His father was Frank Ambrose Crane,” Marcus adds.

“Frank?” Abbie squeaks.

“Yes, for Frank Irving, of course,” Marcus clarifies. “I'm sorry. This must be very unsettling for you.” He pauses, taking a moment to look at them, drink them in. “You look just like you should. Just like the pictures. I never dreamed it would happen during my watch... I mean, I'm honored, but it also means some really bad things might be happening, which isn't good at all...” He looks at Crane. “Sorry. I ramble when I get excited.”

“What year is it?” Crane asks, still holding onto Abbie, his arm protectively wrapped around her shoulder.

“2294,” Marcus answers. “If you would come with me, I'll take you to safety. You can have a shower and clean clothes, and my sister is preparing food for you.”

“Your sister?” Abbie asks.

“Yes. Her name is Jennifer Grace. She prefers Jen though,” Marcus says. “Please. Come. There is so much information we need to provide for you.”

“I... I imagine there is,” Crane says, but he doesn't move, overwhelmed.

Marcus looks at Abbie. “We have everything you'll want to know about your son, Mrs. Crane. We've kept careful and thorough records of the Crane line since 2022, when you two, um, went under.”

“Thank you,” she whispers.

“It's a poor substitute for the real thing, but... it's better than nothing, right?” he tries, smiling weakly.

Abbie nods, and steps forward. She extends her hand and Marcus grasps it. “Thank you, Marcus,” she says. “Please, lead the way.” She reaches back for Crane's hand.

“You should be very proud of him,” Marcus tells them over his shoulder. “He was a great man. Truly.”

“Thank you, Marcus, that does set our minds at rest,” Crane says.

“And, thank you very much for not calling me 'Grandma',” Abbie adds, finding her sense of humor again, wearing it like a shield.

“I didn't think you'd appreciate that too much. Especially because you are only about ten years older than me,” Marcus comments.

“Give or take a few hundred years,” Abbie adds.

Crane and Abbie follow their descendant up the steps and emerge into the cool night air, looking around. Not surprisingly, they are in the forest.

“Tell me, Abbie,” Crane murmurs in her ear as they follow Marcus to his car – ship – vehicle – transport – whatever, “did you find yourself rising every 70, 80 years to pee?”

Abbie chuckles, looking around the forest as they walk. She reaches out and takes her husband’s hand, squeezing it with a sigh. “We defeated him once…”

“…And we shall do so yet again, Treasure,” he finishes.


End file.
